


The Act of Dying

by teprometo



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Battle of Camlann, Canon Era, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:00:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teprometo/pseuds/teprometo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Arthur feels himself bleeding to death at Camlann, all he wants is for Merlin to be near.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Act of Dying

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brief_and_Dreamy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brief_and_Dreamy/gifts).



> This was written for the wonderful melusinahp, who requested an Arthur/Merlin fic having to do with the magic reveal. Happy holidays!

Arthur falls. He falls and falls and is falling. He never hits the ground. He floats. There is no battle. There isn’t anything at all.

The cold is the first thing that seeps into his consciousness. Then comes the sounds of shouting men and sword hitting sword and armour and flesh. The stench of carnage. The throbbing in his side. He becomes faintly aware that he’s lying on the ground, that he should be fighting, but he can’t. He can’t move, too weak, and everything he is leaks from him. He twitches his fingers, seeking out a sword or shield or the rough skin of someone’s hand, anyone’s. He doesn’t want to do this alone.

He opens his eyes, but everything is blurry. There is so much death, and all he feels is remorse. If he had been a better warrior, a better king, a better _brother_ , none of his men would have met their ends here at Camlann. Arthur will die with them, proud to join them in the afterlife, but he knows it’s all been for nothing.

He can’t catch his breath. He’s so cold, and nothing makes sense anymore, and all he wants is Merlin. He wants Merlin’s hand and Merlin’s breath and Merlin’s voice. He wants Merlin to lie down with him, to share his warmth and to pass into nothingness together. He wants Merlin to live forever, perfect and youthful and untouched. He wants to tell Merlin all the things he’s kept in his heart all these years, things a king isn’t allowed to feel. He hopes Merlin knows them anyway.

He thinks he’s imagining it, Merlin’s voice bellowing his name, coming closer, seeking him out. Merlin should be long gone by now, because Arthur ordered him to leave. But Merlin has never listened, and he doesn’t listen now, his hands warm and rough against Arthur’s face.

“Arthur, wake up,” Merlin says, his voice breaking over a sob. And Arthur can’t bear it, wants to tell Merlin to run, wants to beg him to stay. “Please wake up.”

He tries. He tries to open his eyes, but everything hurts, and his body isn’t listening.

“I’m not losing you,” Merlin says.

His hands press against Arthur’s wound as though he can push the life back into his body. Arthur knows it’s too late, but he’s grateful that Merlin is trying anyway.

Merlin is babbling nonsense, sibilant sounds that Arthur doesn’t understand. He thinks Merlin’s gone mad.

The pain eases and disappears, and Arthur thinks this is it. He’s dying now. He wishes he could speak. He tries one last time to say, “Merlin.” He hears his voice, weak and desperate, and he opens his eyes in shock. Merlin is staring down at him, his face set in wild concentration, the gold of his eyes cutting through the fog.

Merlin keeps babbling, and Arthur watches him, watches his eyes, feels his body begin to grow warm, his strength returning. An enemy soldier hurtles towards Merlin, sword brandished, and Arthur tries to yell, but Merlin’s already turned halfway around, his hand outstretched, and the soldier falls, lifeless.

“Magic,” Arthur says, exhaustion sinking deep into every corner of his being.

Merlin’s eyes fade back to blue, and he looks wrecked. “Please forgive me,” he says, and then his hands are all over Arthur, checking bones and armour and skin.

“Mordred,” Arthur says, remembering the blade in his side, the furious rage burning in Mordred’s eyes.

“Dead,” Merlin says simply, still feeling along Arthur’s leg.

“Morgana?”

Merlin gasps, a deeply unhappy sound, and Arthur knows before he hears it. “Dead.”

“You killed them?”

Merlin is silent for a long moment. When he speaks, he merely says, “I did what I had to do.”

The sounds of battle are dying out, replaced by heavy footfalls thundering away from the battlefield. Soldiers are fleeing.

“We won?” Arthur says as Merlin whispers something into the cut on his arm.

Merlin’s hands are on his head, feeling for injuries. He sighs and says, “If you can call it that.”

Merlin insists he lie still, and Arthur reaches his arm up and twitches his fingers, hoping Merlin understands, because he can’t ask for this.

Merlin gives Arthur his hand, and Arthur pulls it to his lips, kisses until he feels like he’ll suffocate under everything he feels.

“Stay with me,” is all he can say.

He thinks Merlin understands.


End file.
